Nora had been, that afternoon, practising industriously, with a view to having her part in the coming oratorio as perfect as possible; when she was interrupted by a very unexpected visitor, Miss Spencer.

"I'm so glad to see you," she said, warmly. "So you've actually come to see me at last!"

"I had to come, unfortunately;" said Miss Spencer, her usually serene face looking anxious and distressed. "I am sorry to say, I have some bad news for you."

"About Mrs. Travers?" asked Nora, with prompt divination.

"Yes. She has had one of her restless fits lately. You know I've been giving her some light work to do about the wards, just to keep her employed, and I hoped the fit would wear off. But to-day, she slipped out, and has never come back. We've sent in various directions, but have got no news of her. Lizzie Mason's people have seen nothing of her. I knew she didn't know your address, but still I thought it was just possible she might have found her way here."

"No," replied Nora. "But what can have happened to her?"

"I suppose it's the old story," said Miss Spencer, with a sigh; then, lowering her voice, she said:

"I know a good deal about her now, and I think I ought to tell you her story, as she told it to me a few days ago. I meant to tell you about it, the first time I had a good opportunity. But it is rather private. She wanted me to promise not to tell any one, but, I didn't promise, absolutely.

"There's no one else in," said Nora. "Sophy's out, and Will's away attending some medical convention, and Cecilia's gone out for a walk with the other children."

"Then, I'll try to tell it to you, as she told it to me—by snatches. Part of it, of course, I had to guess at, putting things together as I best could."

"Yes, I understand," replied Nora.

"Well, as you know already, she's English, and only came out a few years ago, under very distressing circumstances. It's a very long story, but I'll tell it as briefly as I can.

"It seems that her father died from the effects of drinking;—probably he was a 'dipsomaniac,' too; and—her own mother having died during her infancy—she had to live with a step-mother who was by no means kind to her. She got a situation when only sixteen, as a nursery-governess with a lady who pitied her, and treated her most kindly. About a year after she went there, a young clergyman came to stay at the house. She must have been a most lovely girl, and he seems at once to have fallen desperately in love. She was, evidently, easily won. She says he was very handsome, and, I suppose, otherwise attractive. The lady she was with, must, I think, have promoted the match. I suppose she thought it was an excellent thing for her. So, after a very short engagement, they were married from the house of this lady, who wouldn't let her go back to her step-mother. She had only one aunt, the wife of her father's brother, a good and kind woman; who, however, was in straitened circumstances, and lived in a distant village. And I suppose her husband didn't care to have much to do with her relations.

"His curacy—for he was only a curate—was in a small town not far from London. At first she seems to have been very happy, but, by and by she began to feel lonely. I fancy her husband began to find that she wasn't much of a companion for him, for she hadn't had the chance of much education, though she has quite a taste for painting flowers. So, I suppose, when his affection began to cool down a little, he began to tire a little of her constant society and of the quiet life they led. He was passionately fond of music, and used to go up to London frequently, for concerts and lectures, leaving her often alone for a day or two at a time. She must always have been excitable, and she began to have fits of crying when she was alone, and by and by she was attacked by neuralgia, to which she had previously been subject. The doctor unhappily recommended stimulants, and her hereditary taste for them rapidly developed. The habit grew stronger and stronger, and at last her husband discovered that she was sometimes not quite herself. She seems to have had false friends, too, who tempted her. He, of course, was terribly shocked and angry when he found it out. Probably it broke the spell that her beauty had exerted to hold his affection. He declared that if she continued the practice, he would not keep her with him. But when the fit came upon her, she seemed to have no power to resist it, so she passed some miserable weeks, trying to keep from it, and, when she could not resist, in terror lest he should find it out.

"At last the crisis came. One warm day she went to visit one of these 'friends'—drank to excess—tried to get home—but, between the heat and the effect of the stimulant, sank down, unable to walk, and was brought home in that condition, insensible. Her husband left the house half frantic, I suppose, leaving a note for her to read when she came to herself, in which he told her they must part, at least until she was thoroughly reformed; that he could not risk the consequences to his usefulness in his profession, of having such a scandal in his house, and that he would pay for her maintenance in her aunt's house, if she would receive her; but, for the present, he would see her no more."

"Oh, how cruel!" exclaimed Nora, who had listened in silent dismay to the tragic tale.

"Well, I'm afraid nine out of ten men of his temperament would have done the same," replied Miss Spencer. "But, the poor thing was stunned when she realized it all. She had no choice, however, except to do what he directed. She went to live with her aunt in the country village, while her husband, too miserable, probably, to go on with his work, got leave of absence and came for a trip to America.

"A few months later, her child was born; but she was so terrified lest the husband should take the little one from her, that she would not let him be told of its existence. He did not write to her, directly, only sending the remittances to her aunt. And he did not return from America, but resigned his charge in England, and accepted one out here, glad, doubtless, not to be exposed to meet the curious or pitying looks of old acquaintances.

"When her child was a few months old, her aunt died, and her only cousin, a woman some years older than herself, received an invitation to come out here, to take a sort of housekeeper's place with a friend of hers who had settled on a Western farm, and was in bad health. This poor girl, who still loved her husband devotedly, was seized with a great desire to come out with her, thinking that she too, could get a situation, and then she would no longer need his money, which it hurt her to receive, thinking that he could regard her only as a burden. She of the sea, she would see him sometimes, and she would be near him in case he were ill. Unhappily she could not subdue the fatal craving, and she had no hope of her husband's taking her back; indeed, she seems to have believed that his affection for her was utterly dead.

"So she set out, with her cousin and her child, for New York. They had nearly reached land, when a collision occurred at night, and their steamer was so injured that it speedily sank. In the hurry and confusion, Mrs. Travers and her cousin were put into different boats, and the one the cousin was in, was lost. She and her baby were saved, but she lay in a half-unconscious condition for days afterwards, from the fright and exposure. It happened that her cousin and she had accidentally exchanged handkerchiefs, and hers, marked with her name, was found on the body, when it was picked up, next day. And so, in the newspaper accounts of the accident, her name was given in the list of the lost. Her cousin's name was Travers, which had been her own maiden name. When she recovered and saw her own name in the list of the lost passengers, a strange idea took hold of her. She would leave it so, she thought, and if her husband should see the name, he would cease to think of her as a burden, and perhaps come to think more kindly of her, as we generally do of the dead. And she felt that, with a different name, she could make a new beginning in the new land. She went on to the destination for which they were bound, and, having explained the death of her cousin, she was accepted in her place, notwithstanding the drawback of her child. As her cousin's name was Travers, she was naturally called Mrs. Travers, and she encouraged the mistake.

"What was her real name?" asked Nora, very quietly. A strange idea had occurred to her, which she would not entertain, yet could not quite reject.

"I don't know, I can only guess," replied Janet. "Well," she continued, "she seems to have been tolerably comfortable there for three or four years. Her cousin's friend knew her weakness, and was most careful not to let her be exposed to temptation; and when, at times, she did, notwithstanding, go wrong—it was overlooked, partly for her own sake and partly for that of her dead cousin, and also of the little child, whom every one was fond of.

"At last, this good friend died, and then she had to look for a new home, the husband's mother coming to take charge. She kept track of her husband's movements, and, as he had left his first parish for a large city charge, she thought she would try to get a situation somewhere near him, so that she might see him occasionally, taking care to do so unobserved by him. Her old enemy still kept its hold on her; and again and again deprived her of a home. She had been very much embittered against religion, through her husband's throwing her off, for she thought that had something to do with it; and had absolutely nothing to hold by except her affection for her child, for whose sake she would have kept straight, if she could. When she couldn't get a place, she tried to maintain herself by taking in sewing, or by selling her little paintings of flowers on cards, which I suppose people bought more out of charity than anything else, in these days of chromos. She says she doesn't know what she would have done, for some time past, but for poor Lizzie Mason, who was always ready to share with her what little she had."

"And all this time her husband thought her dead! Is he still alive?" asked Nora, in a scarcely audible tone. She had grown very pale.

"Yes, he is alive, and he still thinks her dead."

"And suppose he were to have married again?"

"I think she never thought of that, till lately. If that had been likely, I suppose she would have spoken. She did try to send for him, when she thought herself dying, on the child's account; but the attempt failed."

Both were silent for a few minutes. Nora, with a throbbing heart, and bewildered mind, was going back in thought to the story, trying to piece things together; remembering, with a pang, Miss Harley's remarks, and trying to fight down a conviction that was too strong to resist. Miss Spencer, who had divined the truth without being actually told by "Mrs. Travers," sat full of silent sympathy for the shock she feared it would be to Miss Blanchard,—yet not venturing to say a word. She had purposely left the conclusion of her story somewhat vague, so as not to let the disclosure come too suddenly.

"Well," said Nora, after a short silence, in the same low tone, "you suspect something—what is it?"

"Everything points to one conclusion only—I am afraid," she replied.

"Yes, but it seems incredible. If one could only know, for sure!"

They heard the children coming and the sound of their merry voices—Cecilia's lower tones mingling with the others. Nora rang the bell, and told the maid not to let them come to the drawing-room, and to bring some tea there for Miss Spencer and herself.

"Sophy is not coming back till late," she said, "and I had dinner with the children, so I don't want anything but a cup of tea; and you will stay, won't you? There are so many things I want to ask, yet. But I couldn't talk to poor little Cecilia, just after hearing all this!"

They sat together in low-toned consultation, with long silences between; till the evening light had faded out, and only the firelight shed its fitful gleams about them. At last, however, Miss Spencer declared she must go, as her turn for duty would come on before long.

"And they may have heard some news of her by this time," she said.

Just then there was a ring at the door. Nora started up with nervous dread lest the visitor might, by any chance, prove to be one whom, just then, she felt she could hardly bear to meet. As she listened to catch the voice at the door, she heard Roland Graeme's clear, low tones, asking whether Miss Blanchard were at home, as he wished particularly to see her. Instantly it flashed upon her mind that he brought some news of the lost one, for it must be something very special that brought him at this unusual hour.

As he entered, Nora saw that he looked much agitated, and, as she introduced him to Miss Spencer, she said:

"I believe, Mr. Graeme, you have come to tell us where Mrs. Travers is!"

He looked surprised at her guess; then, recollecting that Miss Spencer had been the poor woman's nurse, he replied:

"You know, then, that she is out of the hospital?"

Nora assented, and Miss Spencer explained the anxiety her departure had caused; and then Roland, as briefly and gently as possible, told what he had seen. The two girls listened in silence, inexpressibly shocked; tears of pain and pity starting to Nora's eyes, as she fixed them on the firelight and called up the mental image of the poor young woman, dragged away, and locked into a police-cell. Miss Spencer, with her nurse's practical instinct, was thinking what could be done next.

"We must try to get her out as soon as possible, Mr. Graeme," she said.

"Yes," he said, "I will go round in the morning and do what I can. I suppose they'll let her off with a fine—at worst."

"Oh, I should hope so!" exclaimed Nora. "Only do get her out and send her back to the hospital! We must keep her there, till something definite can be done for her."

"There's something else," he said, with an effort. "I found this lying on the road after she was gone, and I think it must be hers. Will you take charge of it, Miss Spencer?"

He hoped she would not think of examining it then, but both girls looked at it with eager scrutiny.

"Oh, I've often noticed it!" said Miss Spencer. "She always wore it round her neck, and seemed afraid of any one's touching it."

As they examined it, they noticed the peculiar monogram, three "C's" intertwined together on one side, and the word, "Celia," engraved on the other. Nora took it and pressed the spring. One look at the two portraits was enough to settle the question they had been discussing, beyond a doubt.

No one spoke Mr. Chillingworth's name, but all felt that they knew his sad secret; and knew, too, that of which he himself had not the slightest idea.